


Playing With Fire

by professor



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bondage, Knifeplay, M/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/pseuds/professor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is a detective determined to catch a serial killer.  </p>
<p>If the serial killer doesn't catch him first.  </p>
<p>(Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing With Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/gifts).



> Written for this prompt on the XMFC kinkmeme: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/6437.html?thread=10121253#t10121253 
> 
> _Charles is a detective who's in charge of capturing a serial killer who seems dedicated to targeting totally morally reprehensible persons, people beyond the reach of law (corrupt politicians, government informants, people who have enough money to buy their way out of anything). Shortly after Charles begun working on the case, he started receiving phone calls from the killer... originally him taunting Charles while Charles shook with helpless rage, but after Charles familiarised himself with the victims' pasts, looked into their backgrounds, read the clippings and blacked-out reports someone sent to him anonymously, the calls became more and more amiable, and then flirty, and by now he's totally fallen for said killer and is having like, kinky phone sex with him in between hiding case evidence and overlooking clues._
> 
> _But serial killers running at large is rarely good PR, so eventually the FBI gets involved when the killer crosses state lines, and Charles is furious and scared because how is he going to protect his, his... case now? And then they call him up to meet with his new FBI liaison who to Charles's annoyance is tall, lean, and absurdly sexy, and rumours say dangerously intelligent and ruthless as well, and Charles is really feeling threatened now, with panic crawling up his spine._
> 
> _Until agent Lehnsherr opens his mouth and says, "Hello, detective Xavier," his voice calm and deep and soothing, and it's all Charles can do to hide his surprise and joy because **he would recognise that voice anywhere.**_
> 
> This fic occupies a weird middle space, in which I tried to make it as fucked up and creepy as the OP requested, and mostly failed. But it's still a lot less happy that 99 percent of the stuff I write, so be aware of that.

There was no pattern to when the calls would arrive, but somehow Charles always knew.

"Hello, detective," drawls the killer's insolent voice in Charles' ear. "Did you receive my present?"

"The information was useful," Charles says neutrally. It wasn't enough to trace the killer -- of course -- or to save any of his victims, but it did suggest some avenues of investigation in other cases. Charles was fairly certain they'd get at least one arrest out of it, and make it stick. 

But he was damned if he would tell the killer that.

*****

The next several weeks are an exercise in frustration -- the killer calls several times, information, files and photos, arrive at his home sporadically, and in all of this, the killer is a ghost. He leaves no trace.

Charles knows enough profiler lingo to understand that while serial killers taunting the police, or even a specific police officer, is routine, the method of delivery is not. Serial killers looking for attention send their big showy messages to the police station or to a news station for maximum effect and attention. 

This killer has been subtle, understated, choosing a variety of different ways to send information, and always to Charles' personal address or personal email.

Charles thinks, for the thousandth time, that he should tell someone at the station about this. But they might -- scratch that, would -- take him off the case, and that is something Charles cannot allow. He has poured too much blood, sweat and tears into this case, and it is _his_.

*****

Charles arrives home after a long, tiring day to find a stack of papers on his kitchen table, sitting next to a single long stemmed rose in a crystal vase.

And his entire apartment has been cleaned. Somehow Charles finds that to be the creepiest of all.

*****

"Do you know what I'd do to you, if I had you in my possession?" asks the killer pleasantly.

"I assume you'd kill me," says Charles, phone cradled on his shoulder as he dries the dishes.

The killer lets out a low, dark chuckle. "No Detective. I don't kill good men. I only ruin them."

Charles reflects on the truth of that statement.

The killer continues. "If I had you, Charles, I would put you in shackles ... and suck your cock."

Charles gasps and drops the plate he's drying. It shatters on the floor.

The killer chuckles again. "I'd put bite marks on those milky white thighs of yours. I bet you bruise so prettily. I suppressed my gag reflex years ago -- handy in my line of work -- and so I bet I could take your entire cock down my throat. Would you like that, Charles? Would you like coming down my throat? Would you like feeling the marks I've put on you, for days afterward? I bet you're hard right now, aren't you, Charles?"

"No, I'm not." Charles lies. 

 

*****

Charles knows he should stop, should decline these calls, should change his phone number. 

But he won't do any of those things.

"I bought new bedsheets today," says the killer conversationally. "Dark red silk, almost the exact shade of your lips, Charles. You would look so gorgeous sprawled across them, Charles, with your acres and acres of pale soft skin revealed to me. I would lick and kiss every inch of your body. Are your nipples as pert and full and red as your lips, I wonder? I bet they are. I'd scrape my teeth across them until they were sore and sensitive, you'd feel it for days, every time you turned or twisted, those crisp white shirts you wear to work would pull across them and you'd feel the pain and think of me."

Charles is breathing in and out, slowly, rhythmically, trying and failing to calm his mind. His cock is hard and leaking precome and it's taking every bit of willpower Charles has not to touch himself.

_Damn_ the man for being so controlled, anyway, talking like he's chatting with neighbors at afternoon tea. It's all just a game to him, anyway.

"And those perfect lips of yours, Charles, I _dream_ about having them wrapped around my cock, about you swallowing my come, and then you crawl up the bed and kiss me and I can taste myself oh oh god --"

The killer's voice hitches ever so slightly, and that's when Charles realizes the killer's not as unaffected as he pretends to be.

The realization is like lightning down his spine, straight into his cock, and Charles is coming in his pants without being touched.

*****

Bit by bit, over the past weeks and months, Charles's ability to lie to himself, to deny what he wants, has eroded into nothing.

"Do you dream of me Charles, the way I dream of you?" asks the killer during their latest phone call.

" _Yes_ ," breathes Charles.

The killer sucks in a breath sharply. This is the first time Charles has responded verbally during one of these calls, and Charles is gratified that it's thrown the killer off-balance.

Charles is laying on his bed, naked. He pours a generous amount of lube into his hand, starts stroking his cock. "I think about you all the time," he says, and the killer's breath catches on the line. "I can't stop. I don't want to stop. I'm stroking my cock right now as I talk to you on the phone, and my only regret is that you aren't here to do it yourself." 

The killer moans, and Charles takes a moment to savor it. "I dream sometimes that when you break into my apartment and leave me files and flowers, that you stay and I come home and find you in my bed, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Or that I wake up one morning with your mouth on my cock and shackles on my wrists just like you promised me all those weeks ago."

The killer's breathing is shallow and erratic.

"Are you touching yourself, my friend," Charles asks.

" _Yes,_ " breathes the killer. "Oh god yes, _Charles_ , keep, keep talking, _please_ \--" 

Charles does, he tells him all the filthy and depraved things he wants to do to and with the killer, and soon enough the killer is coming with a moan, and that sends Charles over the edge.

For the first time in a long time, Charles feels like he's won a victory.

 

*****

Charles has always been good at compartmentalization. He can divide up the parts of his life and keep them separate. There's work, where he puts in hours and hours of hard work into his cases. 

And then there's home, where he receives phone calls that _he doesn't think about_ while at work. At all.

He can do this. He can handle this, and everything is fine.

Everything is fine.

Everything.

*****

Captain Frost calls Charles into her office, and Charles is ready, with rational explanations poised on his tongue.

"There's another body with your killer's MO," she says, no preliminaries. "The catch is, this one is in New Jersey."

New Jersey.

State lines.

The killer has crossed state lines.

Charles' vision whites out for a second, as icy tendrils curl down his spine.

He comes back to himself just in time to hear Frost finish with "-- the FBI is sending a man over tomorrow. I expect you to play nice with him, Detective."

*****

Charles doesn't sleep that night.

He knows, he _knows_ that the killer is brilliant, that it's probably just coincidence that he didn't call, that he may have been out of state setting up his next kill. There is _no reason_ to assume that he's been caught, just because of one missed phone call the same night the FBI sunk its claws into Charles' case.

None at all.

*****

The FBI, in a gesture of extreme dickery, refused to send over any information about the agent they are dispatching, so Charles is flying blind. 

Or he would be, if he hadn't called a contact.

Moira can't get a name for him without sticking her neck out, and she won't do that unless Charles formally requests the favor. (Charles decides to hang on to the marker. He might need it to -- he might need it.)

But she's willing to share general gossip.

"The bureau really wants this guy shut down. So rumor has it they're sending one of the top agents, someone known for always getting the job done. Dangerously intelligent and ruthless, I'm sure you know the type."

Charles runs his fingers through his hair. This is going to be a nightmare. 

*****

And it is. Frost calls him into her office to make introductions, and Charles lays eyes on the FBI liasion for the first time.

This man is sharp and deadly. He's forged himself into the perfect weapon. (Not to mention he's tall, lean, and ridiculously good-looking, and how is that even _fair_?)

Charles quietly despairs. How will he ever protect his, his ... case now?

Frost finishes with the pleasantries, and Agent Lehnsherr inclines his head in greeting toward Charles. 

He doesn't offer a hand to shake, and neither does Charles.

"Hello, Detective Xavier," says Lehnsherr, his voice calm and deep and soothing.

Charles' insides go incandescent with surprise and joy, and it's all he can do to keep his calm, polite mask on.

_He would know that voice anywhere_.

*****

Hours later, and Charles is wondering if his ears aren't playing tricks on him.

Lehnsherr has been coolly polite the entire day, and has given no indication he has ever had ... dealings with Charles before in his life.

He's so skilled and controlled, Charles might be willing to believe he's exactly what he claims to be.

Charles had dutifully "played nice" in front of Frost, showing Lehnsherr the case info available the the station.

Now, Lehnsherr has mentioned a lead he wants to follow up on, a killing that might be related. 

Charles is instantly wary, but has decided to let Lehnsherr take the lead for now and see what happens, because god knows he doesn't have any better ideas at this particular moment.

But as they approach the hotel room where the crime allegedly took place, Charles grows more apprehensive about what he's going to find.

A dead body?

Or, perhaps, a live one? 

And that's not a line Charles is willing to cross. Despite so many others he already has.

He allows Lehnsherr to get the door for him, while Charles is still lost in thought about what he's going to do, what he might have to do.

Charles sees nothing in his immediately line of sight, and there's sharp stab of relief --

The door clicks, and --

And Charles' back slams into the door and Lehnsherr's lips are on his before he can gasp.

*****

A distant part of Charles' mind wonders how he ever thought Lehnsherr was controlled -- the man's kisses are hot, filthy, needy, desperate, and his hands are everywhere, as if he's trying to memorize every detail of Charles' body through touch alone.

Charles has never in his life felt so _desired_. It kindles a fire deep in his soul, an answering, dizzying surge of _want_.

Charles' back starts sliding down the door ever so slightly, and he wraps his legs around Lehnsherr for support. The other man moans into his mouth.

"Charles, Charles, let me, let me, _please_ ," he gasps out between kisses.

"Yes, _yes_ , anything you want --" is Charles' breathless reply. 

There's a frantic rush to get to the bed, and to get out of these wretched, confining clothes, complicated by the fact that neither of them want to stop kissing for very long, but soon enough Charles is naked and sprawled on the bed waiting impatiently for Lehnsherr to join him. Who, Charles, notices with a frown, is still wearing a number of clothes, and that isn't very fair.

And Charles opens his mouth to complain about that, except the other man joins him on the bed and _oh my god_ he was not lying about having suppressed his gag reflex years ago.

Charles has received a number of blowjobs, some of them quite good, but this is the first time he's ever had someone go after his cock like they were literally _starving_ for it, making these filthy little gasps and moans along with the sucking and the licking and the scraping and the swirling.

Charles fists his hands in the sheets and thinks briefly that if the other man is planning to kill him via orgasm he is more than welcome to do so.

Lehnsherr pulls back, now covering just the head of Charles' cock with his mouth, and he slides his tongue under Charles' foreskin.

Charles moans and bucks his hips -- or he would have, if the other man's hands weren't on his hips, pinning him down, and something about being restrained like that turns Charles on even more, if such a thing were possible, and words just start falling out of his mouth --

"--please fuck, fuck, so good, never been this good, keep doing that, so hot wet perfect, **god** I can feel the back of your throat with my cock, so amazing, never _stop_ \--"

Charles is on the precipice, and the other man seems to know it, as he redoubles his efforts. And soon enough Charles comes with a wailing cry, and the other man takes it all.

Charles falls back onto the pillows, panting, but reaches down and tugs Lehnsherr's shoulder to indicate he should move up the bed. He does, and Charles smiles lazily at him. Charles reaches down and, oh, Lehnsherr apparently took care of himself while he was taking care of Charles. 

Well, he can make do. Charles uses his hand to scoop of some of the other man's come, brings his hand up to his mouth and licks it clean.

" _Fuck, Charles!_ " explodes out of Lehnsherr's mouth.

"No, we just did that," says Charles.

*****

 

_I am curled up in bed with a serial killer, and he is holding me like his own personal teddy bear,_ Charles muses. _I should be terrified, if I had any damn sense I'd be terrified, but instead I've never felt more safe._

After that incredible blow job, Lehnsherr had shrugged off the rest of his clothes and started spooning Charles in the bed, apparently content to just hold him for a while. Charles has no objection to this plan, and just drifts for a time.

Lehnsherr is nuzzling the back of his neck and his ear, and that reminds Charles--

"What's your name?" asks Charles. "Captain Frost only introduced you as 'Agent Lehnsherr'."

The other man tenses behind him. "Why do you want to know?"

Charles tries and fails not to roll his eyes, because he understands the other man's paranoia, but really? He was being a bit coy for someone who'd sucked Charles' brains out through his cock earlier.

"Because it will be really, really awkward to scream 'oh god Agent Lehnsherr, fuck me harder'," Charles points out.

The other man freezes for a moment, and then --

Wham! Charles is flat on his back, the other man covering his body, his hard cock jutting against Charles' thigh.

"Erik," he mutters in Charles' ear. "My name is Erik." And then Erik claims Charles' mouth again, deep forceful kisses that leave his lips tingling.

" _Tell_ me you have condoms and lube," Charles breaks away from the kiss long enough to plead.

Erik blinks. "We don't have to yet --"

Charles shakes his head. "Oh no, you've been toying with me for _months_ , talking about how much you want to fuck me until I can't walk, until I'm screaming your name, until your come is dripping out of my ass. Time to pay the piper." He starts stroking Erik's cock for emphasis.

"But, but --" Erik looks dazed, confused.

"Do you want me to beg?" Charles demands. "Fine then." He looks at Erik from beneath his eyelashes. " _Please_ Erik, please fuck me, I want to feel you deep inside me, I want to come from nothing but your cock pounding into me --"

Erik lets out a helpless, strangled noise and fumbles with his hand on the bedside table, grabbing something Charles can't see but he really hopes is lube, and oh, _there_ it is, Erik has his fingers slicked up and is working Charles open. Erik is being careful, methodical, but he's also being quick about it, which Charles appreciates. 

And then finally Erik has the condom on and his cock slicked up and he's positioning himself at Charles' entrance and he asks "Are you sure?" To which Charles hisses "Yes, _yes_ , hurry up and do it Erik --"

Erik pushes in and Charles moans, loudly and lewdly. 

" _God_ ," Erik pants. "Charles, you're so _tight_ , so _perfect_ \--" and then he's thrusting in and out, slowly at first, but with Charles' encouragement soon picks up the pace, moving harder, faster, deeper.

And Charles loves every bit of it, loves the sensation of being spread open and fucked within an inch of his life. He starts chanting Erik's name, and something about that seems to flip a switch in Erik's head and he just goes crazy, fucking Charles even harder and leaving love bites all over his chest. 

A couple of times Erik has almost withdrawn completely without meaning to, he's fucking Charles with such enthusiasm, and so Charles wraps his legs around Erik's waist again. 

Erik adjusts his angle, and _oh god, right there_ , and Erik only has to hit Charles' prostate a couple times before Charles is coming as promised from Erik's cock alone, all over his own stomach, and Erik needs only a few more thrusts before he's coming too.

_This is the stupidest, most dangerous thing I've done in my entire life_ muses Charles as Erik is slowly pulling out of him, _And I don't care_.

*****

 

"This interlude has been lovely," says Charles, curled up next to Erik, propped up on one elbow. "But tomorrow we have to go back to work. Do you have a plan?"

Erik closes his eyes. "I thought I did. You have a way of ... wrecking my plans." 

Charles chuckles bitterly. "It doesn't seem so, not from my perspective. I used to think I was a skilled detective. But I've been working this case for months and I have not a shred of evidence to connect you to it."

"You underestimate yourself," says Erik. "Until you started working the case, no one even knew the ... incidents were connected. Some of them hadn't even been classified as homicides."

Charles knows he's in dangerous territory, but he can't help himself. "I'm rather surprised you didn't try to arrange an ... incident for me."

The silence stretches out between them.

"I thought about it," whispers Erik. "It would have been the practical thing to do, the smart thing. I told myself it would be easy."

Erik reaches his hand under pillow, pulls out a knife. 

Charles says nothing and does not move. 

He regards Erik silently for several moments.

Then he closes his eyes, and tilts his head back to expose the long line of his throat. 

He hears Erik's breath catch. 

"I'd have done it quick," whispers Erik, and now Charles can feel the knife pressed ever so gently against his throat.

"I told myself it would be easy, and I knew it to be a lie." And now Erik is tracing the line where the knife meets Charles' throat with his tongue.

"I started researching you, learning your ways and habits and the sort of man you are," murmurs Erik quietly in his ear. "And it was then that I knew I could never kill you." 

Charles doesn't ask why. 

He already knows the answer.

*****

If Charles needed any more proof that he was addicted to danger -- well, having a knife to his throat should by all rights have him flaccid with fear.

Instead the blood had rushed to his cock so fast it had left him a bit dizzy. His cock _aches_ he's so hard. Charles briefly wonders if Erik is in the same state, but he keeps his eyes firmly shut, unwilling to break.

"You're hard," says Erik in a tone of awed wonder. "I just told you I'd planned to kill you, and I have a knife to your throat, and you're _hard_ from it. From me."

Charles says nothing, merely spreads his thighs slightly in invitation. 

Erik lets out a slow, shuddering breath.

There's a brief fumbling noise, and Erik is slowly, carefully changing position, and then Erik's large, warm, calloused, lube-slick hand is wrapping around both of their hard cocks and pumping, slowly at first and then increasingly faster.

Charles wants to move, wants to thrust back against Erik's hand, wants to open his mouth and moan. 

But the knife still at his throat restrains him. He holds himself perfectly still and lets Erik have his way with him.

Something about the enforced helplessness touches something deep inside Charles, and soon he's about to come. Charles tries to hold himself rigid, tries to hold himself back, but he _can't_ and --

And suddenly the knife is gone and Erik is kissing him, hot and messy, as Charles shudders and comes apart under Erik's hand. Charles faintly registers Erik's own climax as hot come splatters across his belly.

Erik murmurs soothing words and drops soft kisses across Charles' temple and cheekbone and holds him close and strokes his hair as Charles comes down from the experience. 

"I want to keep you," Erik mutters, and something about the distracted tone tells Charles that Erik doesn't realize he's speaking out loud. "I want to keep you, but how can I? How can I possibly?"

_I don't know_ , thinks Charles, despairingly. _I don't know_.

*****

They don't talk about it.

Erik, unsurprisingly, is even better at compartmentalization than Charles. 

It's _easy_ for him to suggest avenues of investigation that seem very promising and even yield information that _looks_ useful. 

To an outsider, it looks like Erik is slowly, _slowly_ building a case piece by piece, police work at its grittiest and most tedious.

And to Charles, who knows better, it looks like a brilliant series of red herrings.

Except.

His gut is telling him that even though he can't find a pattern, that there is one, that Erik is building up to something, slowly weaving a web tighter and tighter.

But not around himself.

Charles doesn't bother confronting Erik about this.

He's learned, over these past months.

Charles waits, and watches, and bides his time.

*****

It's not all bad. 

Erik is quite good at sharing credit, and even downplaying his own role, so Captain Frost is once again convinced Charles is her best detective.

And it's not even totally a lie. Charles has been able to suggest his own "avenues of investigation" that apparently dovetail into Erik's plans, so Erik encourages them. 

Still, Charles keeps an eye on his fellow detectives, watching for signs that anyone suspects the truth.

He's so focused on making sure no one suspects anything about the investigation, that his colleagues blindside him from a different direction.

Detectives Munoz and Salvadore are laughing in the breakroom when Charles goes in to get refills on coffee.

They both look at him, grinning.

Charles blinks. "Something wrong?"

Angel's grin gets even bigger. "Oh, nothing really."

Darwin smirks good-naturedly. "We just wanted to congratulate you on your hot new FBI boyfriend."

Charles runs his hands through his hair. "It's not like that."

Darwin and Angel exchange skeptical looks. "His eyes follow you around the room every time you're around him," points out Angel.

"And you're a lot happier working with him than you've been in a while," says Darwin. 

Charles realizes with a shock that it's true. 

And then he wonders about Darwin and Angel's reactions if he told them the truth. _Erik is the killer we are looking for, and every day I let him sabotage the investigation and every night he comes to me and I let him fuck me._

Instead he smiles and says, "It's complicated." He's very proud that he manages to keep his voice steady.

"Oh, is he not out at work yet?" says Darwin sympathetically, slinging his arm around Charles's shoulders in a half-hug. "I guess it's harder, working for federal. But he knows you're out, right? You can tell him about me and Alex, too, if he doesn't already know."

Charles looks at his friends' sincere faces, and wants to cry.

*****

"You seemed upset at work today," comments Erik that night, and Charles wants to scream, because this only works if _they don't talk about it_.

But fuck that. If Erik wants to play, he'll play. "My colleagues were congratulating me on my, quote 'hot new FBI boyfriend'," Charles spits out, and every word is like a weapon meant to cut, stab, _hurt_.

Erik jerks as though he's touched a live wire, and his eyes are hurt, and Charles is filled with savage glee, because Erik has been hurting him for _months_ \--

And just as abruptly as it filled him, the anger drains away and he just feels tired. Charles hates this, _hates this_ , hates that he's become someone who takes joy in the suffering of others.

Charles puts his head in his hands. "I am in love with a serial killer and I want him to be my boyfriend," and Erik gasps at this "but I _also_ believe in the system and justice and that killing is wrong, and I hate deceiving my friends. And I have no fucking clue how to reconcile these things."

"Charles--"

_"Don't talk._ " orders Charles as he shoves Erik down onto the bed. "Just shut up and start sucking," he commands as he straddles Erik's head, while facing the foot of the bed. 

Erik obediently takes Charles' cock into his mouth as Charles bends down to reciprocate.

Charles shuts his eyes and sucks Erik's cock and wishes futilely for things he cannot have.

*****

Erik wakes Charles the next morning two hours before his alarm normally goes off. Luckily he brings offerings of food and tea, or they may have been a mur-- Charels cuts off that train of thought quickly. Those kinds of jokes are no longer funny.

Erik waits until Charles has eaten, and then hands him a file Charles has never seen before.

"What's this?" Charles asks.

"Information you're going to need," says Erik. "But first, let me tell you a story. About a man named Sebastian Shaw."

 

 

*****

Charles is silent after Erik finishes speaking. He's really not sure if there's anything he can say.

Charles is not a violent man. So it's a bit of a shock to feel the _rage_ welling up inside of him at this moment.

He thinks, distantly, that if Sebastian Shaw were standing in front of him right his minute, he might be willing to pull the trigger himself.

That Shaw and his followers would do such things, to _children_ \--

Erik's story, and the evidence in the file, is compelling. 

And not a bit of it would be admissible in court.

Charles lives with the reality every day that there are some people that the system fails -- fails to help, and in other cases, fails to _stop_. Erik is one of the former, and Shaw is one of the latter.

He can't say what choice he would make under those circumstances. Charles would like to think he'd choose to be the better man.

But he finds he cannot begrudge Erik for making ... a different choice.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. And looks up, to see Erik, coiled and tense and _waiting_.

Charles still doesn't have any words. 

But maybe he doesn't need them. 

He gently pulls Erik into a kiss, trying his best to convey wordlessly _I love you_ and _I'm sorry_ and _There's so much more to you than pain and anger_.

Erik sighs into the kiss, and all the tension leaves his body.

*****

"Would it be enough?" murmurs Charles. "If Shaw were dead, would it be _enough_?" _Or would you still feel compelled to kill?_ Charles doesn't ask. _Is there something inside you that **needs** to kill, needs to see the blood and to watch your victims eyes as they die?_

"I don't know," murmurs Erik. "I don't know."

*****

They manage to make it to the precinct on time, a minor miracle given the revelations of the morning. 

Erik comes back from a midmorning coffee run to the break room looking shell-shocked.

Charles raises a questioning eyebrow, as Erik hands him his mug. 

"Darwin," and when did Erik start using Armando's nickname? "was telling me he was sorry that I can't be out at work, but that I should feel free to be open here. And then he started telling me about his partner Alex. And showing me pictures. And he may have suggested a double date of some kind."

Charles winces. "Ah, yes. Darwin is not ... subtle. That's really more his partner -- his _detective_ partner -- Salvadore's area of expertise." 

Erik snorts. "Double dates. _Ridiculous_. If he knew ..."

"Darwin was Special Forces for six years before he retired and came to the precinct," says Charles neutrally, taking a sip.

Both men finish drinking their coffee in silence. 

*****

 

Charles is running after an obscured figure, chasing it through shadows of red and black --

\-- And then, his arms -- he can't move them, they are being restrained --

He pulls and pulls and pulls and can't get free --

\-- And that's when Charles wakes up, gasping, and _he still can't move his arms_ \--

\-- Full consciousness comes crashing back in.

And Charles realizes he is in shackles. 

But he notes this only distantly, as it's hard to think with the mouth so _hot_ and _soft_ and _eager_ around his cock.

_Oh god, just like he promised ..._ Charles moans, his voice cracking with morning disuse.

Charles' initial panic almost instantly converts to blinding lust, as his cock hardens in Erik's mouth.

Charles looks down half-lidded, to meet Erik's eyes, bright and smug. He hums around Charles' cock and Charles _writhes_.

Erik pulls back so only the crown of Charles' cock is in his mouth, and Charles whimpers, desperate to regain the contact. Erik grabs Charles' hips and slowly brings them up towards Erik's mouth, then lowers them, then repeats the motion a couple times, a bit faster and rougher each time. 

Needing no other encouragement, Charles thrusts his hips upward, fucking into Erik's mouth. The angle's a bit awkward, so after a few thrusts Charles directs Erik to lay on his side and Charles tilts his hips sideways and starts fucking into Erik's mouth again. Erik moans around Charles' cock, eyes fluttering, and does this _thing_ with his tongue and Charles is _gone_ , spilling down Erik's throat.

Both men spend a few minutes panting, and when Charles has floated halfway back down he notices Erik jerking his own cock hard and fast. 

Charles meets Erik's heavy-lidded gaze for a few moments, then closes his eyes and tilts his head back. "Come on me," he whispers. "Mark me, _please_."

Erik makes a strangled noise in the back of this throat and crawls up Charles' body, straddling him. 

Charles hears the slide of skin on skin of one, two, three quick strokes and warm come is splattering on his chest, his face. A bit falls on the side of his mouth and Charles darts his tongue out to lick it up, eliciting a moan from Erik. 

Erik takes Charles' mouth and kisses him softly, sweetly -- almost as sweetly as he kisses Charles' wrists when he unshackles him later.

 

*****

 

Charles doesn't bother looking up when he hears the door to his apartment open. He'd given Erik a key the first week they'd started working together. (Not that Erik couldn't, as he'd demonstrated, get into Charles' apartment whenever he pleased. Still, symbolism is important.)

In retrospect, Charles should be more careful.

"Miss me?" says a cheerful, inuendo-laden voice in his ear as a companionable arm is slung around his shoulders.

"Tony!" It's been far too long since Charles had seen his old school friend. 

Tony pulls himself a chair at the table and falls into it, and abruptly looks serious. Really serious, and not the fake serious he often cultivated.

Charles straightens. Tony _never_ looked serious.

Tony slides him a thumbdrive across the table. "You need to look at that. I was never here, by the way."

"Of course," says Charles. Tony, for all that he is a genius playboy billionaire philanthropist, and cultivated that reputation, also had a skill set that would put James Bond to shame. Charles is entirely confident that Tony made it here unseen, and will leave the same way.

*****

Charles is looking at the thumbdrive, and isn't sure if he wants to vomit, or stand up on the table and cheer.

This is _the motherload_. Charles would almost question how Tony knew what he was investigating, but it's _Tony_. 

The door opens again, and Charles tenses, ready to go for his weapon.

But this time, it _is_ Erik, and Charles relaxes.

Erik, on the other hand, is strung tighter than a bow.

"Who is he?" Erik asks quietly.

Charles blinks. He opens his mouth to reply --

And Erik is on him, pulling him out of the chair and onto the ground, kissing him fiercely, frantically.

"He can't have you," Erik hisses in his ear. "He _can't_."

Charles tries to voice a denial, an explanation, _something_ , but every time he opens his mouth Erik kisses him again, perhaps afraid of what Charles might say. 

Instead Erik practically drags Charles back to the bedroom, with clothing getting peeled off and dropped all along the way. There's an undercurrent of desperation that worries Charles.

And so when Charles gets onto the bed, he goes to hands and knees, ass in the air. 

There's a soft, wondering "Oh," from behind him and Erik is prepping him, his fingers slick with lube, slowly, almost reverently. Erik periodically drops a soft kisses near his entrance while opening him up, and murmuring sweet nothings like _so beautiful spread open like this_ and _warm and tight and perfect_ and _mine, all mine, no one else can have you_.

And then Erik is sliding in and his whole body covers Charles, his hands coming down to intertwine with Charles' hands as Erik starts thrusting, slow and deep. 

Charles gives himself over to the sensations, Erik's body warm and strong and wrapped around him, Erik moving smoothly in and out of him, the scent of his body, the slickness of his skin, pleasure rolling in endless waves.

Erik bites his neck as he comes, hard, and that sends Charles over the edge. 

 

*****

Charles supposes, when it's all over, that he should have seen it coming. 

*****

Charles wakes up to an empty bed. 

This doesn't surprise him. (It _doesn't_. And maybe if he keeps telling himself that, one day it won't.)

He gets ready, goes into work. 

It's a quiet day -- no hot cases. He catches up on paperwork, does some prep for an upcoming court appearance, chats with Darwin and Angel in the break room.

Charles goes home after putting in 10 hours, debates ordering take-out or eating the ramen he's got in his pantry.

He eats the ramen, watches some TV, goes to bed (still empty).

This has been his routine, more or less, for the past 366 days. 

Ever since they took down Shaw.

*****

It frankly felt like something out of an action movie.

The two partners confronting the evil villain in his lair.

Shaw had been the pitch-perfect bad guy, gloating about his evil schemes and how the law couldn't touch him.

Erik, too, fell right into the role of righteous avenger.

But.

Charles has never been good at doing what he is supposed to.

*****

After, Charles marvels at how _easy_ it was for him to take the shot.

After, Erik stares at Charles like he's broken Erik's heart.

Charles stifles the excuses he wants to let fall from his lips, things like _You'd never have gotten away with it, they'd dig and dig into your past and find your tie to Shaw_ and _I couldn't lose you_.

Because Charles knows.

He's going to lose Erik anyway.

 

*****

Erik leaves as soon as they've wrapped up the case.

Charles is not sure why he is surprised by this. (He knew, he _knew_ , but he'd _hoped_...)

 

*****

Every day, Charles scans papers and Internet sites, looking for evidence that Erik has started killing again.

For the past 366 days, he hasn't found anything.

But tomorrow is always a new day.

*****

On the 367th day, Charles comes home to a rose on his kitchen table.

Along with a note. 

Two words.

_I haven't._

Charles sniffs the rose and pretends not to cry.

 

~fin

 

(Author's Note. Personal headcanon is that yes, Charles and Erik do see each other again, and possibly hook up again. This Erik is never going to be sane, but he might get marginally less broken and more functional now that Shaw is dead.)

**Author's Note:**

> (Author's Note. Personal headcanon is that yes, Charles and Erik do see each other again, and possibly hook up again. This Erik is never going to be sane, but he might get marginally less broken and more functional now that Shaw is dead.)


End file.
